


his dreams

by blueprintofyourpast



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Feelings, Jaime Has Issues, Jaime Is Also An Idiot, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8226287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueprintofyourpast/pseuds/blueprintofyourpast
Summary: For Jaime Lannister – board member of Casterly Holding, occasional smoker and secretly the world´s biggest fan of trash TV shows like Lyseni Shore and Keeping Up With The Karstarks – being in love feels just downright awful.OR: Jaime and Brienne are friends and Jaime doesn't feel happy about it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> This is my first fic EVER (well, at least here and concerning this fandom) and it all started with me giving in the strange urge to write something fluffy but then some serious ANGST happened and took the whole thing by storm.
> 
> I'd also like to ask your forgiveness beforehand, since English is not my first language and I'm quite unsure when it comes to tenses and stuff, so if the grammar sucks: please tell me, I really appreciate constructive criticism :3
> 
> With that being said, please enjoy 2000+ words of Jaime angsting around and being a pathetic pansy!
> 
> Disclaimer: A girl owns nothing.

For Jaime Lannister – board member of Casterly Holding, occasional smoker and secretly the world´s biggest fan of trash TV shows like Lyseni Shore and Keeping Up With The Karstarks – being in love feels just downright _awful_.  
The lightheadedness, the occasional stutter of the heart, that all-consuming _warmth_. He used to revel in these symptoms but now there’s a constant sensation of nausea pulsing at the back of his throat and he feels like he might suffer a heart attack whilst dissolving into a pool of his own sweat.  
It all comes down to Jaime’s personal triarchy of doom: Aerys, Hoat and most of all, his sister. One to take his honour, one to take his dignity, one to take his soul. They’re all gone, out of his reach and yet they’re still here, keen to remind him of all the selfish, unspeakable things he’s done for love, keen to put him in his place and keen to keep him there.

But that’s not the point now, is it?

The point is that his hands had been clammy when he’d opened the front door to let her in and she’d taken one quick look at him – her head cocked to the side, her broad lips slightly parted, her plain, boring features rife with long-known austerity and genuine concern – before she’d stepping into his apartment and now she’s here, standing in his kitchen, chopping mints and coriander for their weekly TV night (today it’s Westeros Got Talent, accompanied by cheap beer and Meereenese shish kebab) and he’s on the verge of having a panic attack of apocalyptic proportions because he can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t stop _looking_ at her and what the fuck _is_ this? 

There’s some cheerful indie rock coming from the radio set and Jaime would like to help her, he would gladly do his bit with the cooking but he’s busy aimlessly loitering around the other side of the kitchen isle and fidgeting with the damp sticker on his sweating beer bottle, his eyes fixed on her nimble fingers, his mouth as dry as a bone and his chest a constricting lump of sore muscle fibres.  
Why her of all people? Why not some busty, brainless bimbo with a pretty face and a boring personality? Why his best friend? Why his _only_ friend? Why, why, why?

She’s the polar opposite of Cersei and that’s a _good_ thing. Jaime knows that. She’s a gentle giantess, humble, honest, smart, charmingly stubborn and as loyal as they come and she tends to see through his bullshit at the split of a second.  
He can’t remember how they became friends – hells, he can’t even remember when they first met. It must’ve been a couple of years ago, when his life had just turned into a succession of disenchanting let-downs and bitter arguments with his father and sister and Brienne… Brienne had just stepped into his life all of a sudden and for some reason he’d decided to keep her around.  
Her mannish physique, her almost non-existent curves, her chesty voice – he’d been intrigued by her ruthless androgyny from day one and now that he’s seen the harsh beauty behind her constant blushing, her ungainliness and her general awkwardness, she’s even more astonishing.  
She looks like a grumpy tomboy with her mop of wild, tow-coloured curls, her lumbering gait and her perpetual death stare. She’s as flat as a pancake and she has a thing for skinny jeans and oversized sweaters. Her skin is made of chalk dust and frozen milk, her eyes are deep puddles of blue ink and liquid sapphires and her fucking _freckles_ … Jaime wants to kiss every single one of them – especially the ones clasping her left wrist like a fawnish bracelet.

“Are you alright?” 

“Yes, wench” he croaks and holy fucking shit, Jaime wants to strangle himself as he has to forcefully tear his gaze from her hands and well, let’s just say that the doubt in her eyes isn’t exactly helpful when it comes to soothing the painful twinge that’s thrashing around his chest whenever he dares to take a breath in her presence, “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You look like death and misery had a sleep-deprived lovechild.” 

Crap. Has she always been that glib or has he finally managed to rub off on her? Let’s hope he hasn’t. A saucy, quick-witted Brienne would end him even sooner than the odd, secretive butch of a woman he’s grown so incredibly fond of within the past months.

Jaime doesn’t know what to say and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands either. This is a nightmare. He hasn’t slept for fucking _ages_ and he’s been living on stale coffee and granola bars since their last shared dinner. And even now with the smell of spicy food flooding his studio and with seasoned lamb sizzling away in a pan he’s found in one of the shiny wall cupboards a few weeks ago, he knows that he’ll have to get his shit together if he wants to get down so much as one bite tonight because he’s a mess, he’s a fucking mess and it’s all her fucking fault because she’s his friend and Jaime’s sick of being friends.

He’s sick of staring at her like she’s the best thing that has ever happened to him (although that’s probably the truth), he’s sick of keeping himself at bay, he’s sick of holding his tongue, he’s sick of tossing and turning in his bed at night until he’s finally willing to give up and give in and he’s fucking sick of finding himself in a twisted parallel universe where everything’s fucking perfect, where he doesn’t have to hide the fact that he loves her, that he wants her (so fucking much) because in his dreams, she already _knows_.

In his dreams, she’s with him, her pale hair a sharp contrast to the dark floorboards in his living room, her breath ragged and her legs tightly wrapped around him. They’re animals, clawing at each other and tearing each other apart in the most delicious way there is.  
He doesn’t have to explain himself and he doesn’t have to be careful. He just pushes into her and she’s so overwhelmingly tight that he has to choke back a sob from the sheer intensity that comes with the knowing of the two of them finally being one and she’s writhing and shaking underneath him, she’s chanting his name and deliberately clenching around him with a challenging smile.  
And even though he doesn’t want this to end, even though he wants to stay, even though he wants to keep it this way, he can’t stop moving. He can’t stop thrusting and pounding into her as if his life was at stake, he can’t stop grabbing her hips, her shoulders, her neck, he can’t stop digging his fingernails into her freckled skin, he can’t stop looking at her and he doesn’t have to stop because she _knows_ and it’s alright.

“It’s alright, Jaime”, she says with a low chuckle that turns his entrails into a hot, buttery mess, “It’s alright.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“I love you, too.”

In his dreams, he’s coming spectacularly. His climax hits him like a derailed cargo train and he’s gasping and grunting and growling and whimpering, he’s tensing and shuddering and collapsing against her like a felled tree and he can’t believe that it’s already over.  
He says that he’s sorry for finishing before her – without her – and he says that he’ll make it up to her in a few minutes because he’s not an asshole and he’s still hungry and he knows how much she likes him going down on her, so he’ll eat her out until her vocal chords are torn up and shredded from screaming his name.  
She just laughs and shakes her head. It’s a wonderful sound, it’s his favourite sound in the whole world because it’s soft and feminine and it lights up her face in a way that leaves him slack-jawed and desperate to keep his promise, so he starts to slide down her body, starts to press his face against her throat and into the delicate place between her meager breasts, where he can feel the violent thunderstorm that’s pounding within her flushed chest.

“Wait”, she breathes and he’s grinning when she slaps the back of his head and pulls him up again, her pupils blown and her expression somewhere between bold annoyance and shy embarrassment, “Kiss me.”

And that’s when it’s all falling apart, when _he’s_ falling apart, when he’s waking with a start, his bedsheets soaked with sweat, his skin burning like wildfire and his cock hard and heavy and throbbing between his quivering legs. He can’t kiss her. He can’t kiss her because in his dreams, they never kiss. It would turn his dreams into something different, something _real_ and he doesn’t want to torture himself even more than he already does. Even he has a limit when it comes to wretchedness and suffering.

“You’re not fine, Jaime”, he can hear her mutter and then he’s back in his kitchen, still fumbling around with his beer bottle, still incapable of being his usual priggish self and fudging some snappy remark that would definitively hurt her in some way, even though she’d never admit it, “I can see that.”

Of course she can.  
It’s what he loves and hates most about her because she's always highly aware of his mood swings, always so patient with him even when he’s vexed about something ridiculously trivial and then decides to wrongfully take it out on _her_ of all people. She makes him feel like an asshole on a daily basis. She’s so pure, so loyal – all Jaime wants to do his cut her open and spread her ribs and rummage through her innards, so that one day, he would find what makes her tick, what makes her so fucking _good_ , and he’d cradle it in his hands for a while before squashing it like a bug because he can’t take it anymore.

“You'll get through this”, she goes on, for once unaware of his inner raptus and checking the lamb, whilst adding some of the minced herbs, “It'll be alright, I promise.”

He wants to laugh at that but he can’t. There are tears welling up at the corners of his eyes and blurring his view and he can feel bile and shame and agony rushing up his throat, flooding his mouth and slashing against the backside of his teeth. He can feel her digging her way into his chest like a starved out rat, like the fucking plague that she is and _why is she doing this to him?_ Why does she hate him so much?  
His lips twist into a crooked line of anguish and misery. His shoulders start to slump when she abandons the stove, steps around the isle and wraps her fingers around his right forearm, putting his nervous tinkering to an end. The muscles in his hand are already twitching uncontrollably and he wonders if she just wanted to stop him from falling prey to yet another bout of cramps.

“What’s wrong?” she asks and this time it’s obvious that she won’t let go until she has an answer; that pertinacious, persistent, pig-headed _bitch_.

“I-I… I”, he has to clear his throat, panic fossilising his limbs when he sees goosebumps spreading on his arms, “I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

It’s an order and his head snaps up and her eyes are brimming with anger and sympathy and he wants to scream because apparently, she’s blind and foolish and utterly insane and she doesn’t _understand_. She doesn’t understand that he loves her too much and too hard, that his love for her is lethal, that his love would crush her even though she’s the strongest person he’s ever known. He, on the other hand, is a miserable, self-pitying fuck and he has to fucking stop. He’d rather die than drag her down with him. He’d rather spend the rest of his life dreaming of her than slowly choking her with his sick need for affection. He’d rather be her friend than her killer.

“Everything’s wrong”, he says because she’s a fucking saint and being in love with her should be easy, it should be a fucking walk in the park.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“It’s alright”, she doesn’t flinch when he lets out a shaky laugh and twists his arm, so he can look at the inside of her wrist, “I won’t force you… but I want you to know that I’m here for you. W-When… whenever you need me, okay?”

“Okay.”

She nods and releases her grip on his arm and he should be glad about that (he isn’t, he wants to fucking _die_ ). When he’s about to step back and remind her of the food, she sighs and pulls him into a bear hug. She smells of soil and currents and clean cotton. He takes a deep breath, puts his hands on her waist and lets his head fall into the crook of her neck. There’s a faint tempest rising beneath her skin and he knows he’s dreaming again.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaand we're done. For now.  
> I'm not sure if I'll have the time/nerves to continue this angsty catastrofuck because winter (semester) is coming but maybe I'll have the decency to put Jaime out of his misery in the near future. We'll see.
> 
> Thanks for reading and peace out :D


End file.
